


Tension

by Laeviss



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Clothed Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 21:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After days of putting up with Varian Wrynn, Garrosh’s frustrations come to a head in a stairwell at the Argent Tournament grounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tension

By the third day of the Argent Tournament, Garrosh Hellscream couldn’t take it any longer.

After two days of leering Alliance faces, food he could barely stomach, and wasting time when he should have been prepping his troops for the upcoming war, he had had more than enough. And it was clear Varian Wrynn felt the same way.

All day through the skirmishes and jousts— _games_ , Garrosh thought, that hardly deserved the label of ‘battle’— he had sensed it. The tension. A crackle in the air like a storm about break, to shatter the sky overhead. It was almost palpable, and, from the sidelong glances Thrall kept shooting in his direction, it seemed others sensed it, as well.

But he couldn’t stop it.

His hands balled into fists around the arms of his chair; his shoulders were straight, almost painfully so, as he gazed across the arena, and all he could do was stare at Varian’s narrowed grey eyes and the glare on his lips. It made his breath hitch, a surge of blood rushing to his face, and he wanted nothing more than to run over to smash the arrogant look off his face.

Which he did, but only after he had been pushed past his breaking point.

His feet pounded against the stairs as he rushed towards the Horde exit. ‘Thud, thud,’ like thunder, rolling ever closer, echoing from stone and empty space until it became difficult to hear himself breathing— no matter how loud it got in his haste. Soon, he was out into the snow, but the icy gale that hit his face did little to chase the flush from his cheeks.

He needed to see Wrynn, needed to grab him, and slam him against the wall. And thoughts like that made it difficult to feel the chill.

And apparently, the human had shared his thoughts.

“Hellscream.” The name— one that usually filled Garrosh with pride— dripped with venom, spat like a slur.

He whirled around, only to find the human, arms crossed over his chest, waiting against the wall.

“Wrynn.” His own words carried all of the loathing, but more than twice the volume Varian had used. It blew through the open corridor, and would have shaken the windows if there had been any in its path. He soon followed it with an incoherent sound, a growl, as he bared his tusks. “Knew I’d find you here.”

“Really, Hellscream? Here?” There was that voice again: that haughty, stupid voice that he had dealt with at Theramore, in Dalaran, and now here, on the Argent Tournament grounds, while the jousting passed inside with little knowledge of the battle raging at its door. Maybe these games wouldn’t prove so useless after all.

Garrosh let out another growl, and he was on him, forearm under his chin, slamming his back against the wall while the energy that had built over the past three days uncoiled to explosion. “Fuck off, Wrynn” was all he could manage, but it was enough.

The human’s eyes narrowed; his upper lip curled in disgust.  “Get off of me.”

Staring up into his eyes, Garrosh watched him vacillate between kingly pride and wild rage; he wasn’t sure which of the two expressions he found the more annoying. Breath caught in his throat—   as if _he_ were the one with a forearm jammed beneath his chin— he stepped forward, and snarled, “Make me.”

Not caring how childish he sounded, not noticing the smirk twitching at the corners of Varian’s lips when he said it, he refused to let up. His breath, visible in the cold, curled and billowed between them, making it difficult to tell where Wrynn’s ended and his began, but he paid it little heed. They were close, now. He could feel the chill of his armor against his bare abdomen. The brush of his hair against his cheek as a breeze swept through the passage.

The warmth of his face as he leaned forward to let out another hiss. “You orcs are all the same.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look at you. Barely able to control yourself.”

Garrosh snapped to strike, but the movement, the step backwards he had to take to ready his fist to strike, was enough to destabilize him. Soon he found his own back slamming against the wall. Varian’s face, flushed with reminder of breathless moments, leered down at him, and his hand slammed against his shoulder.

“You’re proving my point.”

“You’re the one who came over here,” Garrosh insisted. His voice came out higher than he had hoped, but he tried to hide it beneath a glare. “I could see you, staring at me _the whole fucking day_. You want this just as much as I do. You want to fight _just as much as I do_.”

“Fight.” A look passed over Varian’s face. His eyes widened, lips once curled in a snarl now evening to a frown. But why would he be frowning? They were here to fight, weren’t they? The energy crackling in the space between them, cheeks flushed and breath curling together in a dance of wills, had been hatred. It had to be. Because if not _hatred_ , there was only—

The breath left his lungs with a sharp ‘hghh.’ The human’s eyes, now round and searching, scanned his face, and he could feel his cheeks getting warm beneath their watch. Any assurance that they were there to fight— that his watch, and the feelings tightening his chest all day had been loathing— melted away like the snow beneath their feet. And for a moment, all he could do was stare.

“Do you want this?” Varian asked, in a tone far softer than any other he had ever used on Garrosh.

“Yes.” His answer was just as small. Automatic, but honest, a gut reaction he hadn’t had time to stifle.

There was a nod, Varian’s bangs falling forward to slide against Garrosh’s chest, the soft touch and the look in his eyes making the breath stick in Garrosh’s throat. And then, the moment was gone. A snarl replaced the king’s smile, and his hand around Garrosh’s shoulder gave him another jerk.

“Then get back inside before someone sees us.”

And for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to Garrosh, he obeyed. Jerking free of Varian’s hold and pushing him to the side, he turned and hurried back into the stairwell. The thud of his boots was different this time; he made no move to climb the stairs, but instead ducked beneath them, waiting in the space below. Between his uneven breath, and the sound of Wrynn’s footsteps following his lead, he found himself flushing, facing away, and waiting in the shadows.

But Varian didn’t seem to mind. His gloves hit the floor with a clatter, and soon his palm splayed between Garrosh’s shoulderblades and pushed until his face hit the wall. He let out a grunt, but didn’t protest. The stone was cold against his cheek as he turned his head, and his fingers, now trembling, scratched around to find an edge in the grout. Something to hold onto, at least, as his shoulders tensed.

He could feel Varian’s breath tickling his neck; he rocked back, just an inch or two, desperate to feel the human’s hips flush against his backside.

But for now, Varian didn’t entertain the gesture. Garrosh groaned— not pleading, of course. Garrosh Hellscream _didn’t plead_ — and dug his nails into the stone. “Well. What are you waiting for, Wrynn? Having trouble?”

“Are you always like this?” The venom had returned to Varian’s voice; if he was teasing, he was doing a good job of it, which only made the strain in Garrosh’s pants grow more persistent. Any other day, he would have fought him, yelled at him, but now, he was struggling to keep the whine from his voice.

“This was your idea, Wrynn,” he insisted; it fell mostly flat as the human’s fingers splayed across the back of his head. Opening his mouth to continue, he was cut off when Varian gave his topknot a sudden jerk. His voice dissolved to a cry in the back of his throat.

He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be letting himself be pushed around and grabbed by a _human_ , and yet—

“—yet here you are.” It was as if Varian could hear his thoughts. Even though he knew it impossible, it unnerved him, and his shoulders trembled as the human leaned his face against the crook of his neck. “Spreading your legs for me. Do you want me to fuck you, Garrosh? That what you’re asking for?”

“Yeah.” All but crying out, he coughed, and tried again. His cheek burned against the wall. “Yes.”

“Too bad.”

It was only a whisper, cool against the shell of Garrosh’s ear, but it made him want to shout. Wrynn knew what he was doing to him— seemed to relish in it, even, leaning forward just enough to brush his codpiece against the orc’s backside. The metal, cold and unyielding, was a sorry substitute for what could be happening, and if not for the hitch in Varian’s breath he might have turned and pushed his opponent against the wall, instead.

But there was something in the whisper that held him in place. A tremor. A shift in tone that signaled a smile forming beyond Garrosh’s field of vision, and he yielded to it, groaning, but waiting. Letting the human reach out and make his first move.

And then, he felt it. Fingers, long and thinner than his own, slid from his hip to the front of his pants, nudging their way beneath the lip of his belt. The touch was faint, and less than satisfactory, but all he could do was shiver and sink his teeth into his upper lip. The human’s other hand, still splayed across his back, held him in place, and the pressure grew frustratingly fainter every time he tried to rock his hips. He was stuck. He let out a sigh.

“You’re so worked up,” Varian mused, as if the comment were necessary. The only reply he gave was a grunt, and a quick glance over his shoulder.

Seemingly encouraged, the finger trailed first between his legs, then up the line of his shaft straining against his lacings. It lingered every few moments, exploring the curve, the angle at which it was shoved to the side in his pants, the tautness of leather splayed across it. Finding the head, he teased it with a soft rub of his thumb.

Another groan escaped his lips, and the human teased, “If you’re not careful, you’re gonna finish right into your pants.”

“Varian—”

“Lo’gosh,” he was soon corrected, the hand on his cock tightening into a squeeze. “I’m Lo’gosh.”

And all he could do was nod, just barely, beneath the weight and touch of the human’s hand, and repeat: “Lo’gosh.”

And with that, his hand started to stroke. He curled it around his cock, palming him through the leather, dropping it down to tease his balls and then making his way back up. His hips, too, started to move against Garrosh’s ass; his codpiece slid against him, the erratic, uneven rhythm betraying his own desperation even while his touch in front did not. His lips pressed against the curve of Garrosh’s neck. Clenching his own hand against the wall, Garrosh let out a gasp.

He could feel the tension— tension that had built over _days_ of looking at him, leering at him across the arena and over the banquet table while the blood rushed to his cheeks— started to come to a head. It clenched at the base of his cock, coaxed on by Lo’gosh’s strokes and the way his fingers teased each piercing, rubbing his head, learning the shape and feel of his cock even without seeing it.

The friction of fabric against him both teased and frustrated; his shoulders heaved, and he gasped between jagged breaths. Lo’gosh was right. He was worked up, and now, unnerved and frantic, tensing and swelling beneath Lo’gosh’s fingers, he didn’t even care enough to deny it. How could he deny it, shuddering and shaking like this?

All he could do now was throw back his head into Lo’gosh’s hold, and let out a low, if not needy, cry. “Lo’gosh, please.”

“Please what?” The human’s composure faltered, his hips jerking against Garrosh’s ass.

“Finish me. Fuck. I’m close.”

“Heh. I—” Another gasp, but it did little to break the jeer. Any remark, any touch, was enough to set Garrosh off now. “I can see that.”

“Lo’gosh!” His roar, as furious as it was desperate, as strained as it was loud, all but masked the cheers and stomps humming through the stadium above. Lo’gosh, however, seemed to notice, and sunk his teeth into his neck.

“Well, since you begged—”

“I didn—”

But then his hand moved, and Garrosh’s protest died in his throat. The strokes were faster, now. His fingers jerked against the fabric, palm grinding into his swollen shaft and wrapping, as much as possible, around the head of his cock. And with that, he threw back his head and moaned. Tension taut at the base of his shaft unfurled, his body yielding to release, to the human’s strokes to the closeness of his body against him. For a moment, there was only Lo’gosh, and then, breath catching, he jerked forward, and felt himself unwind.

The wall caught him when he slumped forward. Lo’gosh’s hand— no longer at his neck, but instead against his side, arm wrapped tight around his waist— supported him, and he drew in a needed inhale. Wetness soaked the front of his pants, just below the lip of his belt and dripping in a trail from his hip to the side of his thigh. But, between the warmth and contentment spreading through his body, he found it difficult to care.

For now.

But after a few moments, a roar filled the stairway. No longer worked up enough to ignore it, or pass it off as one of his own cries, his head jerked back. His eyes stared at the landing above their heads. Pairs of booted feet and hooves thundered from stair to stair, shaking the entire structure, a stampede heading straight for them. For _him_ , with his pants wet and _the King of the Alliance pressed up against him_. His heart clenched, and he jerked away, whirling around and snarling in the face of the one to whom he’d just begged.

“Look what you did.” He glared down at his pants. Clearly flustered, neither of them were smiling any longer.

“What I did? You seemed more than eager to—”

“Shut up.” They were going to get caught. Garrosh felt it in the roar of footsteps overhead and the blood draining from his cheeks to his thundering heart. And he couldn’t hang around and let it happen.

Giving the human a shove, a quick glance at his hair, his stoic features, the codpiece that still concealed his cock and what may or may not have happened in them, he growled, and turned into the cold. And even as he left, he could feel the human’s gaze watching him, a weight firmer and more insistent than even his grip at his neck had been.

His cock gave another twitch against his soiled trousers. Trying to ignore it, he balled his hands into fists, and broke off into a run.


End file.
